Dreams of Light
by Cordria
Summary: A Box Ghost fic. The Box Ghost is searching for a way to move on while letting us in on his past and, perhaps, teaching us a little lesson as well.


I (thump) should not (thump) be writing (thump) any more stories! (thump) Ouch... my head hurts... I need to find something softer to bang it against. But perhaps now I can go to bed.

Thanks to all of you that have been supporting me with your reviews. It makes me very happy and helps me to write. If you haven't yet, go read "Conversations of a Ghost Gabber" (also by yours truely) that I am especially proud of. It has a totally different tone than this story.

This story is kind of weird. It's all about the Box Ghost (whom I have become fascinated by lately). It's... different... and not very happy... It's a combination of a story about the Box Ghost of the present day and some bits and pieces of Amity Park history. Together, they make for an interesting way to pass the time. Anybody who has ever been completely addicted to something might find this a bit unnerving. I think I may have hit too close to one of my own nerves. It unnerves me, anyway.

I hope you... enjoy? Am I supposed to want you to enjoy a dark and dismal story? Or, perhaps, there is a light hiding in the story somewhere... hm... Can you find it?

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Dreams of Light

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"Ghosts are creatures of pure energy, molded into shape and given life by the pure emotions of their previous life. Most ghosts are, oddly, created by one of the strongest feelings known to the human race: pleasure. Ghosts become attached to some sort of object upon their creation (be it a living creature, a physical object, or an ideal of some kind) and their entire existence begins to revolve around it. For some reason, the object of their attachment gives ghosts a sort of ectoplasmic "high," and most ghosts quickly become extremely obsessed. After even a few encounters with the object of their mania, they become hooked, and they will do anything to attain this "high," including attacking and killing humans. Many ghosts, it is thought, even forget why that particular object was so important to them in the first place. And so, to ghosts, certain objects become almost like a drug - inescapable, desirable, pleasurable, and more addictive than any drug known to the man."

_Excerpt from the journal of Maddie Fenton, Parascientist

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_Present Day_

The Box Ghost hovered in the air over the railroad station, going over, in his mind, what he had already searched through. He had, of course, looked through every single box in Amity Park – most of them more than once. The railroad station he had a particular interest in, although he could not quite remember why. But that was why he found himself, once again, over the rail yards.

He swooped down through the night sky, scanning the area for a box. Seeing one, discarded by the side of a track, he chuckled with excitement. He picked up the box reverently, staring at it closely.

The box seemed to glow in his fingers, sending shivers up his arms. _This is it!_ he thought excitedly, his eagerness making his ghostly aura shine brighter than it usually did. He twisted the box in his fingers, listening to the rustling on the inside. _This is the one. This has got to be the box I've been searching for!_

He studied it, not daring yet to open the box. He tried to come up with a mental picture of what the box he was searching for looked like, but he failed. He had seen so many boxes over the years that they kind of blended together. He had never seen what was inside of this box before. This box could truly be the one.

The sides were bent and dirty from wear; the corners were dinged and crushed from the abuse a box takes every day. The crisp edges were long since vanished, leaving soft turns in their place. Water had chewed through one section of the box, leaving the cardboard mushy and moldy.

None of which the Box Ghost saw or cared about. In his mind, he saw a beautiful box, shining silvery in the moonlight, lovingly kept and cared for, edges crisp and neat, corners still sharp. Inside was object of his search, a glowing ring of bliss that would let him leave this plane of existence and move to the next. The Box Ghost held the box close to his heart for a second; enjoying the feeling of completeness that came when he had found the box he thought might be right. He didn't move for a full minute, knowing full well the power and pain of loss when it turns out this box was not to be his.

Finally, he could wait no longer. The Box Ghost opened his eyes and carefully opened the box, turning it over so that the messy remains of a book plopped onto the ground. In a flash, the box he was holding was not a silvery glimpse of perfection and happiness, but a dirty, moldy box that smelled like it had been rotting for some months. A sob slipped out from between the Box Ghost's lips. He flung the box to the ground and flew off into the sky.

Another box down. An eternity of boxes to go.

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June 18, 1934

Dearest Sophie,

It is with deepest regrets that I am writing this letter to you. I will be, as you had feared, late in returning to you. The railroad is far from completion, and so my paycheck is far from in my hands. We are just now passing through a small village called Amity Park. It is rather quaint, you would enjoy it. The locals say that the place is haunted. I, myself, have not seen a ghost, and do not fear them.

On a better note, I found the most beautiful stone for your wedding ring. I had it set into a gold band so I can marry you properly when I return. I keep it in a special silver box close to my heart, even when I am working on the rail ties. That way, you are always with me. I will bring you this ring, dear one, not even my death would be able to stop me.

I love you more than words can say, my beloved, and I cannot wait to be reunited with you. Two more months, I am told, but that is two months more than I can stand. I received the package you sent, the overalls were beautiful and they fit wonderfully. The other workers are very jealous. Please let this letter find you happy and safe.

Your fiancé,

Gregory

_A copy of last known letter written by Gregory Smith, a worker on the rail lines.

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_

_Present Day_

Stung and hurt by the loss of yet another chance at happiness, the Box Ghost wound up at the school. Casper High was empty and quiet at night, a perfect place to hide from the torture that he figured was his existence.

He especially liked the science labs. Science labs were typically clean and relatively empty of boxes, unlike the art rooms where stacks upon stacks of boxes filled with art supplies lined the walls. The Box Ghost did not go into the art rooms anymore. That was a disaster even he wanted to prevent.

He was in luck this evening. The science teacher had put away all of her supplies, leaving the room spotless and box free. The Box Ghost sighed, relaxing against a wall and half-closing his eyes. Without boxes around to bother him, the Box Ghost was almost happy and relaxed. He closed his eyes the rest of the way.

A vision floated up into his mind. It was a box, as always. Silvery and small, carefully crafted and buffed every day to keep the fingerprints off, the box seemed to hang in the blackness of his mind. It would be about the perfect size to fit into the pocket of his overalls that was over his heart. The Box Ghost smiled to himself.

In his mind, the box twirled gracefully, tipping end over end like a ballerina, until it came to rest. The ghost could feel his body tingle with excitement as the box in his mind started to open. Inside, there was a blazing light and the Box Ghost was filled with unimaginable happiness. He was complete. He was free of this existence of searching though boxes! A lightness began to spread through him…

But then the box snapped shut, leaving the Box Ghost alone in the science lab, crushed by a fate that nobody truly deserved. His eyes flickered open in disappointment as he contemplated what to do next. Maybe he would go tease that Phantom kid again. He kind of liked getting put into that thermos. It gave him time to think and be away from all the boxes. Of course, the halfa could never know he was being set up.

He stood up, fighting in his mind over what to do, when _it_ caught his eye. Sitting in a puddle of moonlight, on the teacher's desk, was a square-ish shape.

"A box," he mumbled, staring at it. Even he could see that it would not be holding what he was searching for – after all, it was really more of a file organizer than a box. But, it was full of papers. Perhaps, at the bottom…

"No," he whispered. He turned his back on the box, but it played through the back of his mind constantly. "It's not _my_ box!" he moaned, clenching his fists tightly and starting to fly away. "It's not… it's not…"

But then he stopped and turned around. What if it was in there somewhere, and he didn't look, and he would never know it was there? It wouldn't really take _that_ long to look. Better safe than sorry. With a groan, the Box Ghost flew over the file organizer and was, for the million and seventh time since he died, utterly disappointed.

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June 21, 1934

Sophie Delavre –

It is with sorrow that I write to tell that Gregory Smith has died. Witnesses say he was looking for a lost trinket, some sort of small, silver box, when a pile of railroad ties collapsed onto him. He died quickly and painlessly. His body will be buried on Friday here in Amity Park, all expenses paid by the rail company, and his final paycheck forwarded to you.

Our condolences to you and your family.

_A copy of the telegram sent by the rail company to one Sophie Delavre.

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_

_Present Day_

He tore out of the school, feeling vaguely guilty over emptying the file organizer of all of those papers. The teacher would have to reorganize them tomorrow.

The Box Ghost was, against his better judgment, heading towards the halfa's house. He couldn't take it anymore. A few hours jammed into the Fenton Thermos would give him time to settle down and relax. Maybe, if he was lucky, he would even be able to talk the Phantom kid into not releasing him back into the ghost zone. He didn't want to put up Skulker or Walker or any of those other ghosts tonight.

Taking a small detour, the Box Ghost zipped silently though the grocery store on his way. He needed an excuse to wake the kid up and get him to suck him into the thermos. The Box Ghost was floating in front of a darkened display of egg cartons, contemplating how many eggs it would take to get sucked into a thermos, when he noticed the pallets sitting off in a corner.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, drifting towards them. They were loaded up with… _boxes_. Dozens, if not hundreds, of _boxes_. The Box Ghost's eyes went wide with surprise, then with happiness. _Surely_, his mind whispered softly, _surely it's in here._

Forgetting his plan involving the halfa, the Box Ghost grabbed for the nearest box and tore off the top. He dumped the box of cereal onto the floor and scrabbled through it for a moment, looking for the light of his dreams. Crushed by the fact it wasn't there, the Box Ghost looked up at the next box, feeling the power of desire rush through him. He grabbed, dumped, shook his head, and grabbed the next box.

"Maybe this one," he whispered, turning the box over, and dumping out the contents. Nothing. "Maybe this one." He grabbed indistinctly at boxes, creating a huge pile of groceries on the floor of the supermarket. "Maybe…" He was working feverishly, barely glancing at the falling apples and oranges before tearing into another box.

Though he never stopped working, a tear trickled out of his eye at the impossibility of it all. Whatever he was searching for, it was not here. He knew it would not be here. Whatever he had lost all those years ago would _not_ be in boxes that had just arrived in Amity Park a few hours ago!

But, no matter what his brain might be saying, his hands kept grabbing for the next box, his heart kept leaping at the thought that this box might be _the one_, and his voice kept on mumbling, "Maybe this one…"

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July 4, 1934 – Amity Park Herald (page 3, bottom corner of the page)

A new ghost has appeared in Amity Park. A rounded fellow, tinged with a blue color, the ghost is usually seen haunting the rail yards, often wailing about finding a box that it seems to have lost. This ghost, although outwardly harmless, should be approached with caution. A few of the rail company's workers commented that it may be the ghost of Gregory Smith, a rail worker that died about two weeks ago in a freak accident. The rail company had no statement on the matter. Contacting the fiancé of the deceased worker, the Herald has learned that the small, silver box the worker's ghost is apparently searching for was recovered in the worker's barracks a few hours after the accident and has been given back to the family.

_Short article from the Amity Park Herald

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_Present Day_

The Box Ghost picked up the last box on the pallet and held it in his hands. His eyes closed, wondering, hoping, feeling the trembling of pure desire rush through him as he touched the sharp edges of the box, knowing the pure bliss of the light that might be inside. Carefully, he opened the box and peeked inside. Paper. Lots of paper. The Box Ghost screamed and quickly emptied the box, searching. The object of his desire was nowhere to be seen. In a fit of fury, the ghost ransacked the rest of the grocery store before flying back out into the night. He had eternity to search, not knowing that he would never be able to find what he was looking for.

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The End

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Did you find the light I hid deep in a box somewhere in this story? Or can you only see the darkness?

Please send me your thoughts and reviews. They are, to me, like the light in the box is to the Box Ghost. I live for them. I write for them.

Thank you.


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